


Devotion

by frozen_delight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Episode: s12e07 Rock Never Dies, M/M, Morning After, Season/Series 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-30 00:23:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12642315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frozen_delight/pseuds/frozen_delight
Summary: It's about devotion.Aftermath of 12x07 “Rock Never Dies”.





	Devotion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hunenka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunenka/gifts).



> For hunenka, who waited for this fic for a very long time.
> 
> Warnings: Show levels of violence/squicky topics. Unbetaed, apologies for any mistakes.

Soft cotton brushed against Dean’s hand as he felt under his pillow. Softer than he was used to. Soft like flowing white gowns, lithe ballerina arms, pearly laughter and cherry blossom eyes. Soft like the complete absence of a gun—

Disoriented, he squinted out from under his cocoon of sheets, trying to make sense of his semi-dark surroundings. Scarlet digits drew his focus. _05:14_.

His sleep-addled brain supplied: _Clock_. _Nightstand_.

The words hovered on the edge of his consciousness, as insubstantial as the fading dreamscape of dancing girls, before the events of the past 24 hours came back to him in one fell swoop.

Fuckin’ L.A.

Fuckin’ Lucifer.

Fuckin’ _fuckin’_ Crowley.

He pushed a hand through his hair, groaned around the faint taste of sulfur on his tongue. “Why’d you let me fall asleep?”

“You looked like you needed it, mate.”

Crowley sounded far more chipper than anyone had a right to be at ass o’clock. Without bothering to turn around, Dean gave him the finger.

He’d been sleeping badly ever since the whole thing with Mom. Still, no excuse to fall asleep next to the ex-King of Hell, no weapon at hand.

He sat up and fumbled for the light switch, ignoring how his back ached in protest. He was really getting too old for being tossed around by archangels on a regular basis.

Stark light erased the shadows, laid bare the impersonal whiteness of the room. No, _suite_ , Dean corrected himself, blinking. Nothing less would do for Crowley. Pampered bastard. Though admittedly the sheets were rather nice. A long way from your average motel bedspread.

He reached for his clothes, folded over a chair next to the bed. His jeans were cold and chafed uncomfortably against his skin.

“Leaving already?” came the question from the other side of the bed.

“Never meant to stay this long.”

Dean pulled his sweaty tee from last night over his head. He sniffed his armpit and scrunched up his nose at the smell. He should have taken a shower instead of falling asleep. And, above all, he should have left. Ditching chicks in the middle of the night was a douchy move, sure, but Crowley was hardly what you’d call a nice girl.

Behind him, Crowley chuckled. “Well, aren’t you Mr. Sunshine this morning.”

Case in point.

Dean twisted around to glare at him, resisting the urge to pull the bedside lamp out of the socket and strangle Crowley with the cord.

Crowley was resting against the headboard and watched Dean with the impassive alertness of a seasoned hustler. Apart from his tousled hair, he looked none the worse for wear. His suit was immaculately pressed as always, the tips of his shoes polished to a shine, and the injuries on his face had healed up overnight.

Whatever unfathomable impulse had prompted Dean to accompany Crowley back to his room last night had disappeared right along with them.

“Sammy’ll be wondering where I am,” Dean said, looking away.

“Really?” Crowley stroked his beard, eyebrows raised, and Dean caught a whiff of his two hundred dollar aftershave. “I’m sure your Moose expects you to spend the entire night comforting Vince Vincente’s many grieving groupies.”

Dean remembered the sneer Sam had worn when he’d caught Dean playing Words With Friends the other day. He dreaded seeing a similar expression on his brother’s face when he came back.

Sam was different somehow. Maybe because of Mom. Maybe because of something the British Men of Letters had done to him. Maybe because of—

He was more disparaging somehow, more bitchy. It wasn’t difficult to picture him snidely parroting Crowley’s words, along with a complaint that _he_ ’d been up all night doing research. In the past, Dean would have diffused tensions like that with a quick _What can I say? I’m an altruistic kinda guy_. However, recently that sort of quip had earned him an additional lecture on how unhealthy it was to repress his emotions.

In the still of the night Dean sometimes longed for the frowning wonder of Amara’s gaze to heal the judging holes Sam’s stare had burned into him. At other times, he found himself wishing Dad were still alive so Sam’s glares could find a new target. Mostly, though, he simply missed his brother.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dean shot a dirty look in Crowley’s direction and leveraged himself off the bed.

He almost welcomed the pain in his back as he bent down to retrieve his socks and boots. Better that than admit Crowley might be right.

Back on the bed, Crowley tutted gleefully. “You sure about that?”

Dean clenched his jaw and did his best to tune him out.

“No missed calls from our dearest Samantha, not a single text…”

“What are you—?” The boots slipped from Dean’s fingers as he saw Crowley’s thumb scroll over the screen of his smartphone.

“…There are a few messages from a certain Beth, though.” Crowley smacked his lips. “Should I be jealous?”

“Oh, fuck y—augh!” Dean tried to wrestle the phone away from him, only to close his fist around empty air.

“Or maybe not.” Crowley reappeared on the other side of the room, looking ridiculously pleased with his demonic party trick. “Since I see you’ve kept all my voicemails?”

“That’s for blackmail. Now hand it over, jackass!” Dean said, using the sternest dad voice he had in his repertoire, and held out his hand.

“What, no threatening parade of your saucy little dagger? I’m disappointed.”

Dean shrugged. “You’d only fling me into the wall and my back’s still sore.”

Crowley huffed, amused. “In my defense, you do look good pinned to the wall, darling.”

“Idiot.” Dean bit back a smile. “Now give it back before I change my mind.”

“Well, we really can’t have that.” In one swift move Crowley teleported to Dean’s side and slipped the phone into the back pocket of his jeans. “I need you to be in good shape when I fuck you in the Jacuzzi later.”

Dean batted ineffectually against Crowley’s arms. “That’s not gonna happen.”

“Don’t be so sure of that,” Crowley said and drew him down into a kiss.

Dean lasted less than three seconds before he melted against him. The son-of-a-witch had made a living out of kissing others, after all.

The teasing licks of Crowley’s tongue took him back to the previous night. Crowley’s beard prickling against his abs. The softness of Crowley’s middle, the strength of his biceps. The air heady with scotch, danger and want. Crowley fucking him all the way across that king-size bed with its ridiculously soft sheets until his head hung over the edge. Blood rushing into his head; Crowley stealing his breath with rough kisses. Then an inhale of smoke, sulfurous, sizzling hot, tasting of devious energy—Crowley’s soul at the tip of his tongue. The sensation of falling and flying all at once. Crowley’s hand bearing down on the tattoo on his chest. The thrill of knowing he could burn it off. Dean had whited out, then, coming harder than he had in a long time.

When Crowley drew back, Dean’s cock strained against the front of his pants, eager for another round of reckless pleasure.

He’d been lying to himself earlier—he knew quite well what had prompted him to come here last night, and now he could feel its glowing echo. What was it that Crowley had said at the hospital? _It’s about devotion. You wouldn’t understand._ But Dean did. Oh, but he did.

To have someone who could crush you and half the universe lay down their head on the proverbial chopping block for you—who could witness that with total indifference? Especially when you couldn’t even trust your own mother to do the same?

With a gleeful smile, Sam had shown him the first postcard Mom had written to Asa. _She was always a hunter, see. She’s gonna come back in no time, Dean._ But all Dean had seen was proof that his mother had willfully abandoned him at the age of one to go on some revenge quest in Canada. Proof that he’d never been enough to make her stay, even back when he was still the little boy she missed so much these days.

He took a deep breath and met Crowley’s gaze.

Crowley was watching him, his head tilted, his expression sharp and charming like his kisses, his hand a hot and greedy presence on Dean’s lower back.

Dean reached out and traced a finger across the smooth skin under Crowley’s left eye. “You did good last night.”

Crowley squeezed Dean’s ass and rolled his hips. “What can I say, I’m one hell of a guy.”

“I was talking about the concert, douchebag.” Dean dropped his hand. “You do have your moments when you’re not too busy being a pain in my ass.”

“You wound me, darling. I thought I had my best moments inside your ass.”

“Just stop talking.”

“In a hot minute,” Crowley drawled and tightened his hold.

“What now?”

“Your toyboy in a trenchcoat couldn’t tell me how you saved the world without blowing up Amara and yourself.”

“So?”

“I’m curious.”

“Why?”

Dean watched the corners of Crowley’s mouth curl upwards. “You Winchesters and your dirty little secrets, it’s adorable.”

“Oh fuck off, there’s no secret! With Sammy missing and Mom back, there wasn’t…No one’s really asked me.”

It felt strange to admit it out loud. Even stranger was Crowley’s feigned interest. “Well, _I_ ’m asking now.”

“Why?” Dean asked a second time, brows furrowed.

“Really, Dean, if I didn’t know better I’d say you don’t trust me very much.”

“Cute.”

Crowley looked expectantly at him.

Dean sighed. “There’s not much to tell, really. We just talked, then Amara forgave Chuck, and they rode off into the sunset together.”

But not before she ripped Mom out of Heaven and away from everything she loved, Dean added in his head.

“Ah,” said Crowley in a tone Dean couldn’t read. “I’d forgotten you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Talk. Give a grand, rousing speech. _Family don’t end with blood, but it doesn’t start there either_ , blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah. And, I’ll hand it to you, it’s really impressive the first time round.” The hand on Dean’s back coiled like steel. “No wonder Amara fell for it, hook, line and sinker. She didn’t even stand a chance, poor thing.”

“Dude, what’s your problem?” Dean asked through gritted teeth.

When Mom had walked out on them, disappointed that they no longer were the little boys she’d left behind, or when Sam had made small talk with Beth like he couldn’t even remember that the CPS had once been the one nightmare haunting them that couldn’t be put to rest with a simple salt-and-burn, Dean had thought of Amara’s smile as she thanked him. _You gave me what I needed the most_. And he’d clung to her promise, _I want to do the same for you_.

Damn Crowley. He had no right to sound so bitter and disdainful, to trample over one of the few precious memories that had kept Dean going through the past few weeks.

Crowley narrowed his eyes at him and leaned closer, sulfur coating his breath. “You are.”

Dean swallowed and told himself he’d known this was coming.

_I did it, all of it, for you._ _I unleashed a force on this world that could destroy it…to save you._ That’s what it always came down to. That’s what he did—ask for pain and destruction and pointless sacrifices even when he wasn’t aware of it.

“You talk about free will and standing up to your family, yet when it comes down to it, it all means nothing to y—oow!” Crowley cried out as Dean’s fist connected with his recently healed eye.

“Your hot minute’s over.”

Dean twisted out of Crowley’s arms. He roughly thrust his feet into his discarded boots. “We fuck—” he shoved one arm into his leather jacket “—we fight—” he pushed the other arm down the second sleeve “—and we. Don’t. Talk. About. It.” He turned up his collar and cast Crowley a scathing look. “You want someone to listen to your crap, call your mother.”

It came as no surprise when his back collided with the wall. Still he struggled against the invisible bonds immobilizing him. It gave him great satisfaction that Crowley had to look up at him.

“ _Crap_?” Crowley hissed, his expression murderous. Dean suppressed a flinch. He’d seen Crowley snap people’s necks wearing that look. “I know you. And not just in the biblical sense.”

_I know you._

Where had he heard that phrase before?

_I know you. I know what kind of a man you are…_

Right, the dancing girls from his dreams. Wilis. He’d read about them in Dad’s journal. Eyes white and soft like cherry blossoms, a flurry of white dresses. A sweet, sinister chant of _I know you._ _I was made by men like you. I was made for men like you._ The faster he’d pirouetted to their song, the more _I know you_ had sounded like _I own you_. And he would have Prince Siegfried-ed himself to death if not for—but that part he couldn’t remember. Of fucking course.

Dean blinked. Refocused on Crowley’s stifling presence. On the invisible hands pinning him to the wall. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Is that so?” Crowley’s breath was hot against Dean’s neck. “You forget I’ve read the books.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, well, Chuck was a crappy author.”

Crowley eyes flared up crossroads-red, before he took a step back and laughed. “Undoubtedly. His use of adverbs alone should earn him a spot in the ninth circle downstairs.” He shuddered theatrically. “But that doesn’t mean he didn’t get the basics right. How you’ve let others walk all over you from the cradle—abandon you, blame you, abandon you again—and for what? An inflated six-letter word.”

“Fuck off! Like you didn’t!”

Crowley made a soft, surprised noise at the back of his throat and the invisible powers holding Dean wavered. Dean sprang into action, seized Crowley by the collar and slammed him into the wall in his stead.

“You don’t get to judge me, or my family, not you!” Dean pressed his forearm hard down on Crowley’s windpipe. “You turned me into a demon, and then you walked out on me.”

“Te…technically, darling,” Crowley wheezed out, “you’re the…the one who walked. A…and you ne…ever really stopped.”

Dean stared at Crowley's crimsoning face and found he couldn't quite deny it.

The fight drained out of him and he suddenly felt very old. He released Crowley, watched him take a few steadying breaths. His fingers itched to straighten Crowley’s tie.

“What can I say,” he said with a self-deprecating laugh, “feels nice to be the one who walks away for once.”

“And you told me to kick out my mother…” Crowley muttered.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Well, she did try to kill you.”

“Because none of your friends and family have ever tried to kill _you_ , crumpet.”

Even Mom, and then she left, Dean's brain supplied, ever eager to deliver crushing news. Better not think of Mom.

“Well, sometimes you just gotta suck it up and stick around.” Remembering Vince’s distraught groupie in the hospital bed, Dean added with what he hoped was a halfway convincing quirk of his eyebrows, “Unless they ask you to carve the initials of a rotting hair rock star into your chest. Now that’s a deal breaker.” He stretched his arms, shook out his stiff limbs. “God, I hope Lucifer chooses a classier vessel next.”

Crowley waggled his brows and flashed his red eyes. “Kiss me and I’ll make it so.”

“No thanks. A wise man once told me: You never use the same crapper twice.”

He could still hear Alastair’s voice in his head. _Shhh, pet, don’t ruin the surprise._

“It’s hardly the same crapper these days. You should see what I’ve done to the place! Less Tudor, more Taylor Swift.”

Dean wrinkled his nose. “Not a fan.” Good thing Sammy wasn’t there to call him a liar. “And neither are you, Mr. Miles-and-Coltrane. Why are you even still trying to win back Hell? You hate that place.”

Crowley cast him a wistful smile. “What else am I supposed to do—move into your top-secret bunker and hunt ghosts? Please. You don’t even store decent whiskey.”

Dean snorted. “No… God, no.”

“Glad that’s settled.”

“You could always go open a B&B in Vermont, though. Or a bakery.” Dean raised his fingers in air quotes. “ _Crowley’s Cronuts_.”

“Why, Dean, I never knew you’re a huckster-manqué.”

“You’re the huckster-mon…mo… _monkey_.” He held up a hand when he saw Crowley roll his eyes. “Don’t say anything.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Crowley replied with studied innocence. He brushed a thumb over the collar of Dean’s leather jacket. “What I have in mind doesn’t require any talking.”

Dean shook his head and reached for the door knob. “You know I can’t stay.”

“Yes, you can. But I know you won’t.” Crowley waved him off with a tired hand. “Run, Forrest, run.”

With a pang in his chest he refused to give a name to Dean noted that Crowley didn’t teleport away before he closed the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Feedback is love.
> 
> You can also talk to me here: [LJ](http://frozen-delight.livejournal.com/) | [Dreamwidth](http://frozen-delight.dreamwidth.org/) | [Tumblr](http://frozen-delight.tumblr.com/)


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